Transposing Matrix
by cashewkitty
Summary: Jackson Overland knows why the colonists hate the Piasa tribe, the "dragon" Indians. But enter a small Indian boy, injured, missing his two front teeth, and a forbidden friendship between the two, and Jack can't help but wonder about everything he thought he knew about the dragons. And then there was that mysterious gust of autumn wind that saved both their lives...
1. Impulsions

This is Burgess. Its two months west of Tyranny and a few degrees south of Starving to Death. It's located solidly on the Tropic of Malaria. My colony. In a word? Tough. We're the first generation here, but you couldn't tell. We have fishing, farming, and a charming view of the sunsets. The only problem is the neighbors. See, most places have thick forests, or maybe a friendly group of Catawba people. We have the Piasa tribe. Indian for _dragons_. Most people would leave. But not us. We're colonists. We have stubbornness issues. My name's Jackson Overland, but I go by Jack.

The Piasas attack us every night; stealing food and livestock, setting things on fire. You know, just the regular pillaging and ransacking. No one really knows why they attack us, just that it's been that way since we got here, and that it's our duty to fight back. Because killing a dragon is everything around here.

Killing a Hunter is sure to get me noticed. Warriors are tough. Taking down one of those would definitely get me a girlfriend. A Holy Man? Exotic. Only two, twice the status. Then there's the Warchief and the Chief. Only the best colonists go after those. They have this nasty habit of scalping their victims. But the ultimate prize is the Indian no one's ever seen. We call him the Night Fury. He never steals food, never shows himself… and never misses. No one has ever killed a Night Fury. That's why I'm going to be the first.

* * *

It was clear that night. Not usually a good sign, but for me it was perfect. The perfect opportunity to sneak off and finally kill my Indian. The dragons tend not to attack during storms, something about rain and snow making it difficult to set all our stuff on fire. Sure enough, within an hour of nightfall, the war cries of the Piasas could be heard from the edge of the forest, shrouded in mystery and malevolence. They approach like foxes, fight like lions, and disappear like birds. The small groups of Indians emerged from the tree line, wearing war paint and dress that only seemed to reinforce the vast differences between our two cultures. Despite their bright colors, the dragons hang low to the ground, hidden, using the shadows to their advantage, and showing just how well they know their land. And they know it well.

Small knives are their favorite. Close, hand-to-hand fighting seems to be the preferred method of attack from their frontlines. Then there are the archers. They stay hidden, shooting out of trees and brush to weaken our attacks. We, on the other hand, use guns. I'm not sure if the Indians even understand what they are, but the initial shock and fear has worn off, and since guns are not exactly subtle, the Piasas have done a pretty good job of avoiding most of our shots. Once the attackers fight their way in, they take as much food as possible, and throw down their torches, setting our village ablaze. This same routine, them killing us, us killing them, them burning our houses, us taking their land, it pretty much just repeats on and on, with no end in sight. My dad thinks that if we can find the location of their tribe and get the jump on them, that we would be able to beat them, but no one knows where they live, or what they do with all the food they take.

Tonight was no different. In the excitement of the attacks, I managed to slip out and head for the woods, taking my dad's favorite gun with me. Due to certain… _issues _in the past, I'm not really allowed outside anymore when the Piasas attack. I escaped fairly easily though, tiptoeing as lightly as I could, despite knowing no one would notice my absence. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not that no one notices me; it's just that I'm not necessarily the most _useful _fighter. Call me distractible, but staying serious and focused for so long has never really been a skill of mine. Everyone in my village is very hard work and deadlines, planting this, farming that, never any time off. I, however, am more snowballs and fun times. After all, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. It's not my fault if this settling-the-wild, taming-the-great-unknown colonial life just isn't natural for me. Let's face it – I can't go five minutes without cracking some sort of joke, and unfortunately, a good sense of humour isn't very high up on the list of qualities for a strong Englishman, settler of the mysterious and unexplored west. It's more like somewhere between reading and cleaning. But that's all about change. After tonight, I'll finally be respected in my village. Hell, if I kill the Night Fury I could just sit around cracking jokes all day.

But first, to find him. His signature is those infamous flaming arrows, sent whizzing from the tree line to their target with deadly accuracy, a small spark shooting through the dark night, soon accompanied by the insistent conflagration of the Night Fury's fire. I scanned desperately for any sign of him, muttering under my breath "C'mon, give me something to shoot at." After a few minutes of scouring the treetops, I spotted the tell-tale glint of a razor sharp arrow head among the foliage. I took a deep breath and lined up my rifle with the shadow that stood out against the brilliantly starlit sky. Sights lined up and nerves collected, I braced myself for the recoil and squeezed.

* * *

It fell out of the sky with a sharp crack and a sickening groan. I knew before the bullet even left the shaft, as soon as I felt it tracing along the rifling, soft vibrations racing to the end of the barrel, that I would hit my target. It seemed to float downwards almost ethereally, like a soft shred of paper in the wind, before landing with a thud. I, of course, was too ecstatic to notice anything else. I had hit the Night Fury. The elusive, awe-inspiring, seemingly untouchable Night Fury was down, and it was all because of me! I was so glad that I was alone in that small clearing, because to witness the ensuing dance of excitement was not something I would've wished on my worst enemy. Still, it would've been nice for _someone_ else to have seen the fact that I just took down a Night Fury! "Did anyone else see that?" I wondered aloud, still slightly twirling around from my happy dance, before having my question answered in the form of a painted face covering my vision and chilled metal against the surface of my throat.

A warchief.

"Except for you."

I'd like to say I beat him off with all the savage ferocity of a warrior, or that I ran away with grace and speed, leaving him spinning in confusion at my escape. I'd even be okay with saying I at least remembered the giant gun I was currently gripping tightly, let alone had the presence of mind to use it. No, I instead chose to intimidate the redskin with my patented scream of utter terror and tripped away back down the hill with extreme dignity, purposefully rolling to the bottom, all the while never letting up on my yell. Yep, I made all the colonists proud that day. My shining moment.

These sentiments were apparently shared by the warchief watching me from above, as he chose that moment to let out a loud chuckle before continuing chase. I bit back a remark in favor of focusing on not dying. I was inadvertently leading the savage down towards the middle of the village, but I didn't realize that until I came face to face with the wall of a house in the center of town. He was rounding the corner behind me, yelling in his native tongue. That dragon had barely even broken a sweat, despite the fact that he was holding a flaming torch next to his face. I ducked behind the house seeking cover, when he arrived at my other side, knife poised. Before I even had time to comprehend the glint of finality in the small blade, the Indian was knocked… well, tackled to the side, leaving me panting, confused, and grateful. Of course, I should've known who had just saved me – who else then the great James Francis Overland, the leader of our village, man of unmatched bravery and strength, lithe, cunning, and resourceful. The very reason our little settlement had lasted more than a week in this harsh land across the sea. My father.

I stood more than a little awkwardly against the side of the house, panting, and watched him fight the Indian, in what should have been a pretty evenly matched fight. It went on for several minutes, with the Indian supplying knives almost as quickly as my dad could disarm him again. Mid-stroke, the savage paused, a brief look of panic decorating his features. "You're all out." The fearless leader snarled at him, before delivering a single devastating blow to the head. He turned tail and sprinted back into the forest, leaving me, Dad, and a rather large fire alone in the center of the town.

"Sorry, Dad." I muttered, cringing at the sounds of a nearby tree crashing to the ground, ablaze. Tonight's attack was worse than most nights, and, having, er… distracted my father for a few minutes, I could tell we would be feeling tonight's damages for a while. By that point though, most of the Piasas had already left. Accompanied with our food and livestock. Wonderful. Plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with the old man. I involuntarily shuddered at that though, before remembering that said man was standing not two feet away from me, ready to drag me home.

"Okay, but I hit a Night Fury."

As usual, my father was not listening. He was too busy lecturing me. I continued anyways.

"It's not like any of the other times! You guys were busy and I had a very clear shot. I mean, I really, actually hit him, Dad. He went down, near the edge of the forest."Apparently this whole little scene was becoming an event. It suddenly seemed like the entire colony was there watching Dad drag me by my ear. "Let's get a search party out there, and we can…"

"Stop!" The nervous chatter from the scattered crowd died immediately, all intent on listening to the village slacker get a beating from the leader. "Just… stop. Every time you step outside, you goof off and disaster falls. Can you not see that I have bigger problems to worry about, Jack? Winter is almost here, and the last trade ships from England will be here in days! You know that's our only chance to get molasses for the rum."

"Hey, between you and me, the village could do with a little _less_ drinking, don't you think?" I cracked, glancing around at the startled glares. Practically our entire town was halfway to concord before noon most days.

"This isn't a joke, Jack." He let out a long sigh, dark brown beard swaying in time with the movement. "Why can't you just follow the simplest orders?"

I swallowed, trying my best not to react to the utter defeat his voice carried. "I-I can't stop myself. I see a Piasa and I have to just… kill it. It's who I am, Dad." I stuttered, no longer sure who I was trying to convince; my father, or myself.

"Oh, Jack. You are many things. But a dragon killer is not one of them. Get back to the house." I nodded in defeat. "Make sure he gets there." Dad said louder, directed at North, his right hand man. North was the only man to surpass my father in height, but his caring demeanor pretty effectively diminished any intimidation from his figure. Story has it that he wandered into the port of England one day, with an accent so thick they had to get him to write down his message, asking to board a ship and help settle the new world. And who were they to refuse this behemoth of a man's request? And the rest is history. He never says much about his past, only mentioning "Mother Russia" occasionally, and how glad he is to be here in Burgess. North stepped up behind me, nodding in response to my father, and smacked me behind the head. "I have his mess to clean up." James finished, more to himself than anyone else.

Of course, my usual tormentors were lying in wait for us on the return journey. Jamie was the first to comment on tonight's events, throwing out a casual "What a performance!" Claude soon joined in, with a "Thanks, Jack, that actually helped. I've never seen anyone mess up that badly." accompanied by the snickers of the rest of the teen fire brigade; Sophie (Jamie's sister), and Cupcake.

"Well, you know, I was trying, so…" I muttered, trying and failing to respond sarcastically to their taunts. I avoided Emma's glare, who was sitting on the hill above the others, and continued my walk of shame alongside North, who had temporarily left my side to shove Claude not so playfully. The big guy really did care about me, and I was grateful for all of his efforts.

Upon arriving at my humble abode, I was still grumbling to North. "I really did hit him."

"Sure, Jack."

"He never listens."

"It run in family." Came the accented reply.

"And one he does… It's always with this disappointed scowl. Like someone gave him weak cider instead of rum." North had been refusing to make eye contact up to this point, but looked up when we reached the doorframe and I began to imitate my father, taking on a rather obnoxious tone and accent. "I am Sir James Francis Overland of the Colonial Province of Burgess, brave leader and protector. I believe there must've been a mistake, good Sir; this child couldn't possibly be mine. I was under the impression that only boring, farming, beefy children were standard issue to someone such as I. This here, this is a talking snowflake."

"You are thinking of this all wrong, Jack. Is not what you look like that he can't stand – is what's inside that's got him worried. You must find your center, and build on that. In time, you and James will come to understanding."

"Ah, yes. The 'center' speech." This was old news to me. But hey, at least the guy tried. Wouldn't kill him to be a little creative once in a while though. "Haven't heard that one before."

"I say it before, and I say it again. Stop trying to be something you are not."

I merely sighed. "I just want to be one of you guys."

The door closed quietly, locking North outside with a soft sigh of defeat. I decided to at least pretend to go to bed as soon as possible, in hopes of avoiding my father tonight. With one last look out the window and the fast approaching dawn, I settled onto the wooden frame and closed my lids, my mind resolute with what I must do the next day.

* * *

He watched him that night. He saw the young teen sneak off full of hope. He witnessed that dance of excitement at his success. He was there for the ensuing chase, caused by the boy's own distractibility. He observed the tense scolding by his father, and encouragement from his father's friend. And he viewed, with unseen eyes, the fleeting tears quickly wiped from the corners of deep brown eyes clenched shut. They were not the only tears shed that night.


	2. Beliefs

**AN: Okay, so these first few chapters actually follow HTTYD really closely, which might seem kinda weird, but it just works so well. I promise that as it progresses, it will deviate more. **

Transposing Matrix

Chapter Two

Beliefs

* * *

He stayed that night. He wasn't sure why, exactly. Something in him just told him this boy was important. It stirred a part of him he barely even remembered he had. A slight nudge, a notion that burrowed into his core and made him certain of his choice, regardless of reason. It was a feeling entirely peregrine to him, and he relished it; the sense of resolute duty, of absolute, static, purpose. He believed in something. And that was enough.

* * *

"Okay folks, who wants to join me on the ship to report back to England?"

Silence.

"You know how important it is to keep in touch with the King. Things aren't going great here, as you _all_ know, and the support from the trading companies is going to be the only thing carrying us through this winter." It was early the next day, and the colony was having one of their infamous democratic meetings that had earned them their name.

One man finally spoke up from the back. "But James, that's a twelve week round trip, and most of us need that time to work on the farms and prepare for the winter in our own homes."

"Alright, then. Those who stay, will look after Jack."

James was cut short by the sudden roar of volunteers. With a sigh, he said to North, "Ah yes, that's more like it."

"You know, I am sure if you just give Jack chance, he could-" North was silenced by an even louder sigh, from the comparatively small man.

"You and I both know that Jack has always been… different. He has the attention span of a snowflake. While I'm gone, I'm going to need you to look after him."

"James, Jack will be fine on his own, he does not need babysit. Besides, I have training to do. The newest batch of teenagers is ready to learn ways of colony. Is exciting, yes?" The giant had that small glint in his eye again that always seemed to light up the room whenever he thought about passing his knowledge onto the youth.

"Yes, North, wonderful. But where does that leave Jack? You know I can't just leave him to himself, and Emma will surely be gone. Good heavens, I trust Emma with her friends alone, and not her elder brother? North, what am I going to do with him?"

"Actually, James, Emma is already enrolled to be trained along with others in next few weeks."

The oldest Overland did not seem surprised with this information. "Why can't the boy just do what he's told? I'm running out of options here. He's supposed to lead this colony one day, and I can't even leave him for a few months. Only the Lord knows what all he would get up to if left on his own for this long."

North suddenly sat straight up, no longer distracted with the fly buzzing around his drink. "Why not sign him up for training? I can keep an eye on him, and maybe even straighten him out a little bit."

"Don't be ridiculous. He'd never survive training, the moment he saw a butterfly he'd be gone, chasing the sunset or whatever it is he does all day." James sat down next to North, looking him in the eye. "Even from early on, I've always known my purpose, always had a sense, a direction. I'd stand on the edge of my father's fishing boat, watching the waves roll in, and I just _knew_ something was out there. And that I was going to see it, live it, settle it. Ever since I was a boy, I've known what I wanted to do. And Jack… Jack is not that boy."

North sat down the cup and returned the glance, somber eyes speaking the truth. "James, you are not always going to be there to protect him. You can't stop him, you can't change him, you can only help him. Prepare him for what is to come. Accept him for who he is, because sooner or later, Jack will find himself in a situation where he need your help, and you both are going to have to be ready for that, when the time comes. I know it seem hopeless, but the time will come. He is going to get out there again; he is probably out there now."

* * *

I woke up with a sense of purpose, which was admittedly foreign. It took significantly less time to clear the cobwebs from the corners of my mind that morning, because I actually had something to look forward to today. I was going to find that Night Fury and prove I could kill an Indian. My life, was about to get infinitely better.

I dressed with relative ease, slipping into my favorite tunic and pants, and grabbed my cloak for the growing chill outside. I can't say I was sad to see summer go, though. Summer meant long days out hunting and gathering potentially and likely poisonous berries, picking pitiful crops, and fishing in our meager excuses for ponds. We don't exactly live in the richest land - I can't blame the Indians for wanting to keep as much of it as possible.

But autumn means leaves to play in, ripe apples for pies, the most beautiful colors in the world painting the landscape, and that delicious, indescribably sweet tinge in the air that just warms you to your core every time you take a breath. But most of all, autumn brings winter. And winter is the best of all.

Winter is snow. Snow angels, snowballs, snow forts, and the manifold layers packed on in preparation for the cold. Our sad little pond freezes over and becomes a place of magic, transformed. It's the delicate frost patterns painting every surface, and the fire burning in the chimney to keep warm. Everyone stays indoors, moms bake cookies, Dad is relieved of his leaderly duties for a day, and Emma stays home for once, blocked off from her friends. Winter is family.

So, taking a deep breath to relish the coming seasons, I set off to find my dragon. Emma was downstairs in the kitchen, doing who knows what. Not me, and I was fine with that. Ever since the group discovered how good she is with a gun, they're more like groupies. Jamie leads the little pack of future leaders, or something. I'm not really sure what they do all day, besides planning to show up at the worst possible times. Which, I discovered as I crept down the stairs, included now.

Sure enough, they were all down there plotting and being generally obnoxious. Probably just lying in wait for the next opportunity to tease me. It's not like I was smaller than them, by any means. I guess people just have a way of looking at a crowd and picking out the ones who won't defend themselves.

I paused at the doorway, trying to judge the situation. I could probably fight my way out, but not without sustaining significant damage. I may not be small or weak; I'm just not real... coordinated. I'm not made for fighting, unlike the rest of our town seems to be. I just don't have the presence of mind for it – nor does it even interest me. I guess that's enough to alienate me.

Once Jamie and the rest of the group picked up on this, they decided I was an appropriate target, and haven't let me rest since. I suppose they chose well, as I tend to present them with some mistake to be teased about pretty much every week.

Truthfully, I've adopted a rather apathetic outlook on the whole situation. It's just part of my life here. Wake up, get dressed, disappoint my father, go work in the fields, get beat up and teased, help North in the armory, get ignored by my sister, make dinner, go to bed. I've got a stable routine going on here, wouldn't want to cause trouble and risk messing it up.

I risked a peek around the corner. They were still here. Not that I expected them to magically disappear or anything. But hey, no complaints here if, you know… poof.

After several moments of indecision (I still hadn't eaten breakfast, and I'm not one to skip meals), I determined that this morning was the optimal time to utilize the backdoor which my house has been so delightfully graced with. I slipped through the frame with as much grace as possible (which is to say, not a lot) shutting it delicately before turning on my heels and sprinting.

Considering no one came out, guns cocked, I'll assume my exit went unnoticed. Emma may have heard something, but I like to think she would've at least kept her mouth shut about this.

And with that, I set off, towards… I had no idea where I was going. I'd shot the Night Fury out of a rather high tree, and he could have landed anywhere. It appeared I had the entire forest to scour. I was not all too upset about this, as it gave me an excuse to skip out on all my jobs for the day. Like I wasn't going to do that anyways. This was just ensuring that I would have an angry and disappointed father to come home to tonight.

All the better to impress him with what I'd discovered. I couldn't wait to see the look on his face. Distractible, my ass. Your son just killed the Night Fury.

Before starting the search, I headed to the small tree approximately a fourth of a mile inside the tree line, and, after scanning quickly to ensure my solitude, began to climb. The tree was not very tall, but it served its purpose. My crook was hidden up here. Staff maybe? I'm not exactly sure what to call it, but stick doesn't do it justice. I've had it ever since I was a kid, when it was considered acceptable to play around with large sticks, when I wasn't the village outcast. Simpler times, filled with family and surrounded by fun. But we grew up. Well, everyone else grew up. I just adapted to the change, and hid my staff in a tree. I suppose it's almost a testament to how much I haven't grown up. It reminds me of a better time. My staff is comfort, which nothing else seems to offer, and that's enough.

I retrieved the staff from the branches, jumping down lightly and resting against the slight "G" shape in the wood. I took a minute to collect my thoughts and ran through the forest in my head, before selecting a path and beginning my trachle through the thick trees.

Finding the Indian was proving to be more difficult than I had thought. I tripped around the forest surrounding our village for a good hour, desperate for any sign of what had happened last night. After quite a few years of using these woods to escape, I pride myself on a rather extensive knowledge of their layout. I'm not the mapmaking type, but for once, I didn't need one. I knew exactly where I was going, and I was pretty sure I had been thorough in my search of the area where the Night Fury was shot. Yet, nothing.

I was walking more carefully now, trying to discern any kind of distinguishable damage in the landscape, when it hit me in the face. Quite literally. A branch was split off of a tree at an odd angle, covered in small scorch marks. I knew as soon as I saw it, that this was it. This was where the Night Fury had lain hidden last night. This was where he had been hit. This was where _I _had hit him.

Stopping to catch my breath that had been caught at the sight of the tree, I pulled out the small fishing knife I kept in my belt, peeking around the corner of the tree for any signs of the body. There was nothing in immediate sight, so I crept out from my hiding spot slowly and lightly, not unlike this morning in my own kitchen. It occurred to me at this moment how much more dangerous the dragon was then a few kids calling me names.

I continued a few steps, knife in one hand and staff in the other. It took only a few moments to find the surprisingly small lump lying at the base of a tree a few yards away, accompanied by a rather large one in my throat.

He had clearly been wounded, shot in the arm by the looks of it, and pinned to the ground by a large boulder. And he didn't appear to be moving.

"Holy… Yes! I did it, I-I actually- Yes!" I didn't bother to contain my excitement. Who was going to hear me? The only threat for miles was lying right there, brought down by my own hand. I walked up to him, inspecting closer, even poking him with my staff. "This… this fixes everything. I, Jack Overland, have brought down this…" aaand then it moved. I'm just going to pretend the noise that came out of my mouth next never happened, let's try and allow me some dignity here.

I pulled out my knife shakily and moved closer, observing the man. He adjusted himself so that his face was showing, and looked up at me with one startling green eye, and I knew. This was no man. He was just a kid.

Eight or nine, if I had to guess, and observing me with this hypnotizing gaze. _I almost killed a kid._ He was wearing a headdress with four black feathers sticking out of it, almost giving the appearance of ears. His gaze turned to a glare, and I steeled myself, knowing what I had to do. It didn't matter how old he was, this was a dragon, a savage, who terrorized our town on a nearly nightly basis, had killed countless of our own. I was here to end him.

I was muttering to myself now, trying to keep up the courage to do this. "I am going to kill you, dragon. I'm going to kill you, and bring your body to my father and this village. I am a settler, a colonist, a fighter." He almost seemed to be mocking me, just lying there watching me, like he didn't believe I could do it.

"Well, this is the last time anyone doesn't believe in me." I was practically yelling, determined to get this over with. I had to. From this point on, people would believe in Jackson Overland.

He finally turned away, closing those unblinking eyes like a move of defeat. Acceptance. I closed my eyes and raised the knife, bracing for the impact. To finish what I started. I was going to do it. He deserved this. I deserve this. I squinted at him one last time, getting a full idea of what I was about to do.

I was going to kill this dragon. I was going to kill this… boy. That's all he was. A boy. I could see the look frozen on his features – fear. He was just a frightened boy, in a situation not of his own making, beyond his own control. And I was going to kill him.

No.

I glanced at my knife, and back at him. The kid was softly groaning now, begging for the end. He was in so much pain, he just wanted it over. I did this. This little boy, on the verge of death either by blood loss or gunshot wounds, completely helpless in the middle of the woods, was here because of me.

My stomach turned and I dropped the knife involuntarily, sickened. The small resonance of the metal hitting mossy forest floor startled the boy, and he looked up at me, uncomprehending. I moved towards him carefully, although he was struggling beneath the boulder, and attempted to calm him.

"It's alright; I'm not going to hurt you." I whispered in the best soothing tone I could manage, albeit my voice was still trembling. The boy was shaking, trying desperately to get out from underneath the weight of the stone.

I considered just leaving, but I figure at this point I'd already screwed up enough and might as well help him. I moved even closer, muttering under my breath, and attempted to move the rock. I think I was expecting something much heavier, but as it turned out, his good arm was pinned under the boulder, explaining why he was trapped. Luckily for me, it wasn't all too heavy, and after a few minutes of mildly embarrassing grunts I was definitely making progress.

"Almost there…" I couldn't believe that the great and powerful Night Fury, unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, was just a boy, and was laying there letting me help him, seeming completely passive.

At that exact moment, as I finally heaved the boulder off of his chest and onto the soft grass beside him, he was back on his feet, bow and arrow seemingly produced out of nowhere and pointed squarely at my chest. Which turned out to be a pretty steep upwards angle, but he was still imposing enough. I stuck out my hands, (staff dropped to the side, forgotten) trying to calm him and avoid getting impaled with the perfectly sharpened arrowhead currently threatening my vital organs.

He stepped closer; harboring an expression that I couldn't help but think was too harsh for his young face. I could see now that behind all the layers of dirt caked on his face (presumably from spending the night on the ground unable to move) he wore black war paint, decorating his nose and cheekbones in a pattern reminiscent of scales. His groans of pain from earlier had shifted to a more primal growl as he continued to approach me, nearly pinning me to a nearby tree.

His eyes were an unreadable mix of emotions, changing each second, yet remaining guarded. He eyed me suspiciously, obviously determining how to kill me. Any indignation I might have held at this indication was drowned by the overwhelming panic swallowing me. I panted softly, trying not to make any sudden movements. He was practically on top of me now, slight figure forgotten in place of the small boy exuding danger and power examining me, calculating.

I exhaled softly and closed my eyes, not ignoring how quickly the tables had turned, how I was now the one attempting to accept an apparent fate, eyes clenched shut, head turned away from the weapon which would end it. And accept it I did. Or tried at least. I don't know that I'll ever be the kind of guy to actually accept death. I've always had a sense that, for me at least, it's not the end.

But I tried my best to make peace with the way my life had turned out in that moment. So my dad was and probably always would be disappointed in me. Well, maybe after this, he'll… no, I'll still be his idiot soon that went off trying to prove something and got himself killed. And yeah, my relationship with Emma wasn't the best either – we barely acknowledge each other's presence these days, and when word of my death got around, she'd probably milk the attention for days. But I would like to think she'd change. You know, treat people a little differently. Appreciate how great her life is; maybe spend some time with Dad. God knows when the last time they actually talked. I suppose they'd finally have something to talk about then. I guess that would be my real hope, that even if I couldn't accomplish much in life, through death I would change things, for the better. Even just a little and it would all be worth it.

My reverie was interrupted by a sudden release in the pressure that had been formerly supplied by the surprisingly strong Indian boy. I looked up, startled, and found myself watching the backside of my victim turned captor, sprinting away by the looks of it. He was still holding his injured arm, and had dropped his bow and arrow in the haste of his retreat.

I adjusted my posture, rubbing the shoulder which would probably be colored with bruises by tomorrow. I heard a distant crash, and cringed. Yeah, that kid definitely was not in any shape to be running around the forest.

I stopped and leaned against the tree to catch my breath, glancing about for my staff. It was still lying next to the boulder, gracefully unharmed. I reclaimed it and set off to return home, I guessed, for lack of a better plan. I was still too dazed to think properly, and although I had avoided death by dragon through circumstances still beyond my comprehension, the other kind of death still awaiting me back in town seemed to have slipped my mind.


	3. Ignition

**AN: Well, finally some Hiccup action! Except not really. Kinda. But not. Yeah.**

* * *

Transposing Matrix

Chapter Three

Ignition

Darkness. That's the first thing I remember. It was dark, and it was hot.

I was uncomfortable, hot and humid, and all I knew was that I wanted out. I felt trapped under the weight of pressures much less metaphorical than usual. Not my father's stern gaze, nor my entire town's outright glare, this was an actual, physical and mental, inability to rise. It was an unfamiliar ache, distant and vague, not in a comforting way.

It felt like swimming through honey; sweet at first, but thick and viscous, pointless, and highly questionable. Why would someone swim though honey? Why was I making pointless similes instead of doing something?

I was hyperventilating now, as there was no doubt that this situation was most definitely not right. But the air fighting its way through my throat was all wrong. It burned, acidic on the way down, like the refreshment my village was so fond of.

This burn offered no relief afterwards though. No satisfying, addictive and long-awaited dulling of the sense, no veil gradually lowered to block out the pain, the emotions, the hurt.

If anything, this did the opposite, awakening a panic of the most primitive kind, burgeoning into a paralysis of a different sort. I knew this pain. It was memorable through its commonality.

A nightly fear was carried in this air, hazy visions of screams lost to its touch, and hatred in the eyes of men not left burning in solitude. Infernos met, matched, emblazoned, and surpassed. Conflagrations claiming so much more than lives, so much more than their engineers could ever envision.

A creature innocent of its own genesis, ignorant to any cause other than its own. Fire.

Although I had cleared up what specifically was threatening me, the overall mystification had not been alleviated. Questions left unanswered, I decided to start with what I knew. Darkness. Well, I supposed that might be due to my currently clenched shut lids.

It was like stepping out of a fog, through a curtain ending much more suddenly than any cloud. The abrupt ending to this state, was, of course, due to the opening of my eyes.

The other known variable, heat, had lost its ambiguity long before, so unfortunately that left me to the slightly more difficult queries. For example, where was I? How had I gotten there? Why was I on fire? And, of course, how do I _stop_ being on fire?

That kid. The Indian boy. _The one I shot._ And then… let go. I had let him go. And after that I had gone home, hadn't I? Well obviously not, considering I was still in the forest now. I must not have made it home. That or I missed an even bigger adventure involving gardening and some very fast growing trees.

I went with the first option, as I sincerely hoped that if my house had decided to grow roots, in addition to catching on fire, that someone would have done something to help me by now. Also I recognized this part of the forest.

I was about halfway to town from where I had my adventure earlier… today? Yesterday? Last week? Judging from my current level of hunger, I decided on somewhere around ten hours, taking into account that I had skipped breakfast.

That was it. I must have passed out on the way back from a lack of food. I have a high metabolism, it's possible. Add that to shock from the day's prior events and it was entirely probable. Likely, even.

Great, now I'm going to start losing consciousness all the time. God knows the "Teen Fire Brigade" needs more ammunition. That would just be perfect.

Considering how much introspection had apparently been necessary in preparation for simply opening my eyes, I sincerely hoped nothing was already permanently damaged. A quick once-over confirmed prior suspicions.

I was not actually _on_ fire, merely surrounded by it. I guess that was something. This positive was rather outweighed by the other result of my examination. The pain from earlier? Apparently not just inspired by smoke inhalation.

My left leg was currently impaled by a tree branch of some sort, although I couldn't see exactly what was going on due to the rather sickening nature of the injury.

I was trying not to fixate on it for long, but an entire tree sticking out of your leg tends to be a bit of a distraction. Oh god, that was definitely going to… I cut myself off there. I didn't know, and I didn't want to imagine.

_Serves you right._

But I had saved that kid, hadn't I? I had risked a lot, defied everything I know, to save him from… me. To save him from what I had done. That was my bullet that was left embedded in the flesh of a helpless boy, that had wormed its way in however it saw convenient, maiming but not killing, in preference of the slow kind of death.

Injury like that doesn't go away. I may not be responsible for that kid's death, yet, but there was no denying the fact that a gunshot to the bone of your arm isn't something you just walk away from.

No matter how you looked at it, I had shot some stranger, a child, out of a tree, mercilessly and guiltlessly, and when that wasn't enough, I had been prepared to finish the deal.

Surely being Indian doesn't make him any less human?

But I hadn't killed him. I stopped myself, I saved him_._ At what cost?

And in that moment I decided that I was going to do everything in my power to help him. I'd track him down. I knew first aid… sort of.

How hard could it be to track down a kid with only one functional arm in the woods I knew by heart? I was determined to make this right.

I had closed my eyes again, but my moment of revelation was quickly interrupted by shooting pains up my leg, and an assault on my nasal passages after trying to take a deep breath.

_Right. Burning to death, alone in the forest._ I should probably deal with that.

Wincing at the dull stabs that were now traveling all the way through my body, I slowly raised myself into a sitting position. That leg was going nowhere.

Attempting to look around, something other than the expected tongues of red and orange caught my attention, a sound that definitely did not belong in a forest fire. Rushing water. _Shit._ I managed to turn my head to the right and risk a glance over my shoulder, confirming my suspicions.

I had managed to get myself impaled and lit on fire in probably the second most dangerous part of the entire woods. I suppose, on the bright side, that my location provided a definite spot where the fire would have to stop – the river.

On the not-so-bright side, said river is located beneath a rather large and very painful cliff. And I was sitting immobile approximately five feet from the edge.

I decided the first priority to avoid death by cliff diving was to move away from the cliff. Logical of me, eh? Yeah, easier said than done. The small tree that appeared to have made a home in my lower calf was proving rather problematic. Not only was it sending searing waves of pain that were numbed purely out of their sheer strength, I knew that soon enough it would really hit and I would be lucky to hold onto consciousness. I needed to move fast, and I had no idea how.

I didn't think removing the branch was best for my leg, or that I could even stomach the deed. It seemed me and my new pet sapling were going for a ride together. Ride being provided by my own two feet, currently wobbling dangerously at the effort of trying to support my weight.

I tread carefully and as lightly as I could, knowing that one wrong slip and I'd be a flattened pancake on the bottom of the river bed.

Pancake. Flap-jack. Flat-jack. Ha ha…

Anyways, the pace was slow but moving all the same, and I was slowly but surely moving away from the cliff, and straight into… the blazing fire. That had been there the whole time. Seriously, how did I miss that?

It only took a few steps back into the thickly wooded area bordering the cliff for me to realize my mistake. Not that I probably would have done any different had I been fully coherent.

Flames licked against the darkening night sky and my soles, giving the sunset brilliant illumination, and my feet a rather unwanted massage. I knew they should have been lit up with pain, but I guess at that point it was difficult to distinguish individual pains from the rest.

Then the stick caught on fire.

If burning on the outside was painful, burning from the inside out was unspeakable. I could feel the heat first, the foreboding tingling telling me, even before my eyes registered the sight, of what was coming. It raced along the length of the wood, desperate for more fuel.

It ripped through the muscles of my leg, having found its opening, and dug in for more. It spread like tiny branches through the whole limb, every nerve screaming for relief as the fire burrowed itself further into me, picking a spot it liked and setting up camp.

Intrepid tendrils of pure agony leapt along the skin, inside and out. I was beginning to smoke. It lasted only a second before joining in with the rest of its kind already filling the air, taking with it my leg, adding its bounty to the pyre.

I could no longer see clearly, and although I was sure I was moving, I hadn't the faintest idea if I was going in remotely the correct direction. I could have been making circles or elaborate figure eights for all I knew. The cracking and snapping of the trees surrounding me was drowned out only by the sound of my own heartbeat.

The world was dancing drunk spins and any certainty I once possessed for position was long gone, although it was fairly clear that I was on my side on the ground again.

I grasped at my cloak with fingers beginning to darken to the color my vision was slowly fading to, barely grabbing hold and pressing it to my mouth, gasping for just one hint of clean air. There was none to be found.

Sweat evaporated before it had even had time to exit my pores, and the smoke had invaded every one of them anyway. The smell was ungodly, burning flesh, something I was familiar with but had never witnessed quite so first hand.

My eyes were shut, but it did nothing to stop the stinging, or lessen the image burnt into my retinas. I was grateful for the small respite of being unable to watch, seeing was almost worse than actually burning.

And the gasping, I knew it did no good, each breath burning more than the last, but I allowed myself to get lost in the futility of it all, searching for just one clean sip.

I could feel my skin tightening, as the very moisture was thirstily sucked out of me by the tongues of agony running free over my body.

The passage of time had lost all meaning by then, marked only by the feverish thoughts running through my head, all dominated by the pulsing, but sure knowledge that I should be dead.

It would be over soon, it had to be. Without the promise of respite, I knew no end would ever be met.

At least these final moments could be spent in peace, after all I'd already done my in-the-face-of-death self analysis once today.

_I know I attract trouble but I don't usually get two near-death experiences in one day. Well I guess this one's not so 'near'._

* * *

I took in what I knew to be my final moments in short, shallow gasps, and was pleasantly surprised to observe what my brain had created for me to enjoy one last time.

It tasted real, transcending the heated air in incredibly refreshing in strong gusts, stirring memories and reawakening old sentiments long forgotten. It was an impossible sensation, peace, brought on by a smell traversing my nose in what was surely a delusion, but a welcome one. It was the smell, the taste, the feeling, of autumn.

This was surely death. Nothing else could be so sweet, an island of utter bliss in the midst of my ocean of agony.

I waited, ready.

But nothing came.

No white lights, no angles in a chariot, no final wave of pain. Nothing. I was simply lying there, on the brink of being overwhelmed, but still painfully aware. Of everything.

Things that had pleasantly faded into the distance came back, sharper and more vicious than before. _No._ I couldn't help but think. This was not the end. This was the opposite. This was just more pain.

I was sick and tired of it. Pain. It had been following me like a loyal shadow since years ago, when I barely even registered it. This was supposed to be my release. My repentance, and moreover, my penance.

For chronically disappointing and angering my dad, for being an inadequate brother, for almost killing some kid as some kind of ritualistic sacrifice to fix my petty problems of my own making, then backing out of that too. _For Mom. _

For everything.

The anger came out of nowhere, from a place buried so deep I wasn't even aware of it, but it manifested in the most pitiful flailing of limbs.

This was not how it was supposed to go, I was supposed to be dead. It was just another task that I'd failed to carry through on, another failure, just like me.

I had been so in my head up until that point that my change in surroundings had passed me by. But when I finally broke through that, the anger spilling out and forcing me out with it, I noticed something.

I was moving.

Definitely not of my own doing, how could it be? I hazarded a glimpse through a single cracked eye, thankfully holding back a gasp at what I saw. Any movement much more than the flutter of an eyelid would undoubtedly have brought the agony rushing back in. It appeared to be held back by a dam of unknown making, but a fragile one at that.

The fire was extinguishing itself before my eyes. Diminishing and flickering out of its miserable existence, no longer jubilant with gluttony but shamed and scolded.

It sank bank into the shadows, leaving burnt skeletons and scars in its wake, receding as if pulled back by the tide, moved by some mysterious moon.

And floating along with it was the pain. Bobbing slowly with the current, ebbing slowly as it too was attracted to the unseen source and removed from me.

I was clearly delirious, but too much so to even care. For the first time in what felt like years, something was stirring, almost as foreign to me as the concept itself. Hope.

However impossible, improbable, impractical, it was there, undeniable, unforgettable, and indescribable.

Ghosts of tremors and shakes slowly slithered out and away, leaving something broken feeling more whole than I had in too long.

It felt like warm fireplaces and cinnamon and a guardian hand, guiding me away. It was physical, tangible. I didn't feel alone.

And then I passed out.


End file.
